“I fully intend to. The problem is—”
“They might kill you anyway. You and Emma both.”
“Bingo. So I’ve borrowed a gun.”
Juan looks alarmed. “Jesus. Why don’t you go to the police?”
“Because they’d never find Emma alive,” I say. “This is not your textbook kidnapping, this is Fargo squared. These dipshits are making it up as they go along.”
Somberly he eyes the silent telephone. “When are they supposed to call?”
“Any time,” I say. “You know what numbskulls they are? They think I want money, in addition to Emma’s return. They don’t seem to grasp the concept of ransom—that it’s the kidnappers who customarily make the demand. See what I’m dealing with?”
Juan leans back, staring into the distance. “What kind of gun?”
“Lady Colt. And don’t laugh.”
“Jack, you ever fired a pistol?”
“Once or twice. Okay, just once.” It was on a police range. I plugged a paper-silhouette felon in the thigh, then wrote a humorous twelve-inch feature story about it.
Juan gets up stiffly. “Man, I need to think about this. Call me as soon as you get the word.”
“You’ll be the first.”
Leaning closer, he says, “Where do you think they’re keeping her? What’s your best guess?”
“I’ve got no idea, brother. Not a clue.”
“Mierda.”
“Just tell me how you did it,” I whisper, “that night on the boat from Cuba. Was it reflex? Or did you plan it all out? I need guidance here.”
“I’ll tell you what I remember, Jack. I remember it seemed easy at the time.” Then he squeezes my shoulder and says, “The bad stuff comes later.”
Half past noon, the phone finally rings again.
“Tagger?”
“Jerry, you old rascal. What’s up?”
“Parry’s at eight-thirty,” he says.
“Tonight?”
“You’re gonna need a boat and a GPS and a spotlight.”
“You’re nuts,” I say.
“And bug spray, too. Better get your ass in gear.”
“Where?” I’m scrambling to take down everything he says, word for word.
“The big lake.”
“Not Okeechobee. You’ve got to be joking.”
“What’s your fucking problem, Tagger?”
“For starters, it’s about forty miles long and thirty miles wide.”
“Yeah, that’s how come we’re meeting in the middle. To make sure you ain’t bringin’ company.”
“Jerry, you watch entirely too much TV.”
“Write this down, fuckface.” He reads me some numbers and instructions for navigating the lake, departing from a marina in Clewiston. I tell him I don’t know how to work a GPS.
“Then it’s gonna be a long night,” he says.
Lake Okeechobee—what unbelievable morons.
“I don’t suppose you checked the weather station. What if the boat sinks and the ‘package’ gets ruined? Ever thought of that, Jer?”
“Then maybe our boat sinks, too. Get the picture?”
He’s a lost cause. Time for a different strategy. “Tell Mrs. Stomarti there’s a better way to do this. A smarter way.”
“She don’t care. She won’t even be there.” Showing uncharacteristic good sense, I’m thinking. Hurriedly Jerry adds, “Anyway, I don’t know who you’re talkin’ about. I never heard a that person.” “Golly, you’re too slick for me!”
“Eight-thirty,” he says again. “Be sure and come alone.”
“Where do I get a boat at night?”
“Steal one, you dumbass. That’s what I’m doing.”
I’m halfway to the elevator when Abkazion intercepts me. The gravity in his voice makes me think he’s found out about Emma. That would be a large complication.
“Where you headed, Jack?”
“I’ve got to meet with a source.”
“Better postpone it.”
I follow him to his office, the same room where I bonded so warmly with Race Maggad III. Abkazion, however, is a different species of animal. He has no poses or pretensions; he fits comfortably in the newsroom, and his word is usually final. If he knows—and how he would, I can’t imagine—that Emma has been kidnapped, it will be damn near impossible to make him back off.
The assertion that I alone can devise her safe return would strike Abkazion as preposterous. Yet that’s the pitch I’m preparing to make when he says something startling:
“MacArthur Polk died this morning.”
“No way.”
“At home,” Abkazion says.
“For real?”
“Oh yes.”
“How? In his sleep?” I ask pointlessly.
“More or less. You ready to rock and roll?”